Hellfire
by SuperSonic21
Summary: The Dark Knight Rises AU: in a city overrun by demons and at the mercy of a fallen angel, cop Sam Wesson prays that his hero will come back to help save the day, before it's too late. Around 3300 words; one-shot.


_**AN: **__I was clearing out my Tumblr, and I found this little pieces of writing I did last Summer - a one-shot for a friend who'd seen TDKR and demanded I write an AU, because she likes my AUs. After dusting it down, I've decided to publish it on here! It's not really a crossover, because this only features spn characters, I guess (?)_

_Anyway, enjoy this! No pairings, I'm afraid. Just a bit of fun :)_

_Reviews are always appreciated, so go ahead of you feel like it! _

* * *

Time was that all the criminals, the hooligans, and the monsters of Gotham would sleep with one eye open. They wouldn't thrive in the darkness, because they knew who they were sharing it with. They certainly weren't the worst thing lurking in the city's shadows.

Time was, also, that they'd see a black Impala – any registration plate, any year – and they'd mutter to one another through teeth that chattered in fear,  
"Not tonight . . . Not _tonight_,"  
After all, every single one of them that wasn't wise enough to feel fear, and flee when they saw her shining, sleek black hood, eventually ended up with a stake through its heart, or a silver knife in its stomach, or a rather special bullet through its brain.

No: those were not nights to even consider harming the city's innocent citizens. The Dark Knight made sure of that.

But then came the madman, to drive what made the monsters afraid away. Even after the madman was caught, and revenge for what he'd done – all the people so close to the Dark Knight he'd killed – was obtained, he couldn't shake the complete agony he'd felt at the deaths of the people he'd been closest to.

Jo. The madman had killed her, joy in his yellow eyes as he rigged up the bomb. He always did like to kill blondes; watch them go out in a glorious mass of fire, and blistering heat.

Cas. The Dark Knight's closest friend and ally, and all of Gotham knew it. The madman had managed to drive him completely and utterly insane, and no one knew how. The Dark Knight remembers, though, confronting the insane Cas as he threatened the police commissioner's life. He remembers how blood so dark it could have been black dripped from his mouth; from the crack in his head, as he closed his hand around Bobby Singer's throat. He'd had to put him down, throwing him from the dock where he'd kept Bobby hostage and into the too-gently lapping waves of the water below.

They never did find his body. Just the trenchcoat. The Dark Knight had kept it, even when he went away. That was the last the he would see of Bobby Singer for a very long time; it was Bobby's job, though, to see that the city remained safe.

And, for the most part, it did: there was a very low population of malicious supernatural entities in Gotham; only the occasional exsanguination by a rogue vampire, or slight confusion over a bank robber with eyes that flashed in security camera footage.

Gradually, people forgot about the Dark Knight; most of them blamed him for the death of an innocent, if a little insane, man, anyway. They didn't know the full story, which was how he wanted it. Gotham was better without him, so he let it forget.

But one man didn't forget.

He didn't forget about Dean Smith, a boy adopted at a young age by the very rich Smith family with a manor house on the outskirts of Gotham, and a successful weapons and technology business. He didn't forget that he'd seen the man visit the precinct, which he'd donated to; he didn't forget the feeling of absolute certainty he'd felt as his eyes gave the billionaire a lengthy once-over from his cubicle.

He'd known immediately who Dean Smith really was.

He didn't tell anyone: he just secretly felt excitement, and pride. Sure, Smith didn't work to keep the people safe through the justice system like he did, but he still helped them nonetheless. The city had cops, hundreds of them – but there was only one Dean Smith. He didn't forget the way he'd blushed when his boss had introduced him to Dean Smith, and told the billionaire of his many great achievements during relatively short time on the force, including his work with the young orphans of Gotham; nor did he forget the respectful nod he'd received at the mention of the word 'orphans'.

So when the Dark Knight disappeared, a year or two after that fateful day when he'd worked out his identity, Sam Wesson never gave up hope that he'd return one day.

Gotham was now a ruin, to put it politely. Under mob rule by demons loyal to a fallen angel, it had set up sham courtrooms, for every single person who defied their rule – the punishment was death, or exile. Both always meant Hell.

The Fallen Angel, Lucifer, was their overlord. He'd first trapped the citizens of Gotham by covering the bridges and tunnels in unending hellfire. Then he'd established his rule by releasing all the criminals, and summoning every available demon to possess as many citizens as possible.

In his city, all cops were wanted, dead or alive. He'd been especially keen on the capture of Sam Wesson, though everyone was unsure why, including Sam himself. All he knew is that it wasn't going to be good for him, and so he'd been vigilant, hiding himself well and helping the citizens out in any way possible: obtaining food, medical supplies, and weapons for those who most needed them through the police commissioner's vast network of connections, both criminal and law-abiding.

A few months ago, Lucifer had set a date. He'd marked it out as the day that Gotham – and, indeed, the rest of the world – would be destroyed. Every single citizen knew that day had come.

It was here. Gotham's reckoning – _judgement day_.

He stared straight up into the dawn sky, as he exited the subway station. The subways had been established as a place for police and non-force hunters to hide: the entrances to the tunnels had been blocked off, locked until one or two people wanted to make a run for supplies.

But today, Sam Wesson wasn't going out for supplies. Today, it was do or die.

In one hand he held his home-made, non-standard-issue sawn-off shotgun, and in the other his stale old police jacket. It was usually strict policy for cops not to wear any sort of identification, because it made them easy targets for the demons that lurked the streets and thronged at City Hall, where Lucifer had chosen to make his base.

Sam was wearing his usual plaid shirt, worn out jeans, and lace-up heavy brown boots – but today wasn't a day for pretending to be any ordinary citizen: he needed to come clean, and be proud of what he was. He was a cop, yes, but he was also more than that: he was a _hunter_. All he wanted to do was kill the things that had made Gotham this way; that had killed innocent men, women and children. He was incurably angry at them – perhaps his anger could only be cured by dying for his cause. He hoped, though, that it would be cured by winning this battle.

He slipped the jacket on, and as he shrugged it over his shoulders, he felt something he hadn't in a long time: pride. He was full of alien feelings today: perhaps because he knew it could well be his last day on Earth, he was full of strange emotions such as _hope_. He hoped desperately for the return of the only man who could defeat Lucifer and his army. He hadn't believed in a higher power much as a kid in care, but he'd finally found his higher power at the age of 26.

The Dark Knight.

Almost immediately, they were upon him. From across the broad main street, which was completely devoid of cars, a gang of seven or eight demons appeared, their eyes flashing black as they rounded the corner of a nearby building. He'd known they'd be on patrol in this area, but he'd gone out anyway, police jacket and all, like a red rag to a bull. Part of him was itching for a fight – even if it was one that he would certainly lose – but the other part was purely focussed on their strategy.

The demons wanted him. So, he would attract the patrol, and lead them away; the other cops would advance on City Hall. It was their last chance to stand up, be brave, and fight for their city.

Sam lingered just a little too long for a chance at safety, watching them intently as they made their shambling way towards him. Eventually, he broke into a run, darting down a nearby alleyway, hoping to lead them on a wild goose chase that would ensure all the others would escape from the subway without being noticed. He wordlessly thanked the parents he'd never known for his presumably inherited unusual height, as he vaulted a wire fence in the alleyway to get to the other side. In the half a second he spared to look back, the demons – who were using citizens of Gotham as their unwilling meat-suits – had merely run straight into it, bowling it over and out of their way. His heart sank as he saw them power towards him like the juggernauts they were, and he realised he literally couldn't run any faster. It didn't matter how long his legs were: he was only human.

The only viable course of action was to take erratic paths. Having grown up in this less-than-exuberant area of the city, he knew the best routes to get himself far away in little time. His left hand scraped across the filthy brick walls, and his right clung tightly to his weapon, as he frantically sought his getaway, turning left, then right, then right again, and making random choices of direction until he eventually reached a clearing.

It was then that he failed to notice an uneven piece of paving slab in the sidewalk: as he shot out of the latest grimy alleyway, he tripped and went flying, arms flailing, through the air and into the middle of the wide, empty intersection. He grazed both of his hands trying to break his fall, his shotgun spinning away from him.

He quickly turned from his stomach onto his back, backing away from the advancing demons, but he knew it was way too late. They surrounded him, their shining eyes like thick ink as they surveyed him, and smiled.

"Our father will be pleased," A suited-up former lawyer purred as she looked Sam up and down.  
"A little bit late catching me, aren't you? You really shouldn't have left it til judgement day," Sam spat, the corners of his mouth turning down as he regarded them all with an expression of loathing and anger so deep, a few of them would have confessed that they'd thought the levels of hatred and fury they were witnessing were only possible in demons.  
"Better late than never," The former head surgeon at Gotham General hospital replied with a smirk.  
"Why don't you just kill me now?" Sam asked in a low voice, raising himself onto his elbows. The crowd sniggered.  
"Kill you? But then we'd just have to go to the trouble of bringing you back,"  
"You need me alive?" Sam asked, his disgust faltering for a moment, as confusion took its place.  
"That's what the boss man says!" A particularly psychotic-looking blonde woman said in a really annoying Brooklyn accent.  
"We've been hunting you so long, though . . . I think we should have our fun first," Hissed the former surgeon.

In one swift motion, his thrust his hand outwards, closing his fist tightly in an aggressive gesture.

Sam yelped in pain: he could feel it immediately. He could feel his insides twist, and burn, as if the man had thrust his fist directly into his abdomen, and was tugging at his intestines and stomach; clenching around his lungs, squeezing the air out of them in a deliberately slow and tortuous way. The shrieks of laughter almost covered Sam's own cries and shouts, which were increasingly less as he found his mouth dry, and his lungs void of the air necessary to make any sound at all.

There was just pain, and the dull registering of the images his eyes were feeding him; the barely-noted feeling of tarmac scratching at his limbs as he jerked about, writhing on the floor, onto his side, when he started to see a bright white light-

But that wasn't in his head.

From his position on the floor, lying on his side, he dragged his eyes up to view the source of the light as blood dripped from his mouth and onto the concrete. It was . . . A car . . .

But not just any car. _The _car.

Despite everything, the corner of Sam's mouth twitched upwards.  
_He's back_.

He saw the door open, and a pair of black boots appeared in his line of vision as the lone occupant of the car got out. He saw the glint of black steel from the knives in the boots, as the man shut the car door and walked towards the group.

That drew the demons' attentions. They slowly turned, their gazes awestruck and incredulous.

"It's-"  
"Yeah, it's me, you sons of bitches. You'd better get the hell outta dodge before I decide which one of you I'm gonna kill first,"

Promptly, they scattered. A few smoked out, expelling themselves from their various dead vessels; a few simply ran.  
"Go tell your daddy I'm back!" He yelled after them.

"D-Dean?" Sam asked, hardly believing his eyes. But they hadn't hit him on the head: he was lucid, and yet he still couldn't help thinking that what he was seeing was a dream.  
"Yeah, yeah – are you okay?" The other man asked, hauling the wincing cop up into a sitting position and letting him lean on him. He wasn't surprised that Sam knew who he was: they'd met briefly a few months back, when Sam had visited his mansion. Sam had let him know that he knew who Dean was – _what _he was, even if he hadn't been it for a long time. He'd tried to convince him to come back and fight crime again in Gotham. Looking back, Dean guessed he'd got his wish.  
"I knew you'd come back," Sam rasped, and then coughed, more blood spraying onto his hand from his mouth.  
"Yeah, I'm not the only one. Cas!" He yelled the last word so loud that Sam was convinced the whole city would have heard it – but that was the least of his problems. Suddenly, at his side, leaning over him and pressing his fingertips to his forehead, was a dead man – well, a dead angel. All he knew was that he felt better immediately.  
"Cas-?" He turned to Dean, "Your friend – I thought you ki-?"  
"Yeah. I thought I did too," Replied the other man, eyeing his angel friend. "But he's alive. Still a bit crazy, but not dangerous anymore. It's a friggin' miracle,"  
"Yeah, I'll say. How did you survive?" Sam asked, his voice no longer thick with blood forcing its way up his throat.

"The answer to your question can best be answered as a series of complex temporal equations,"  
". . . Um, on second thoughts, I'm good," The cop mumbled, as he was helped up to his feet.

It was good to see the Dark Knight again, even if he was wearing a mask. He looked in peak physical condition. He'd been told by a certain cat-burglar that it was doubtful he'd survived his first encounter with Lucifer. But then again, maybe she was lying. Sam could never tell with demons. Especially Meg.

"You're gonna fight him aren't you? Lucifer?"  
"Course I am. Can't leave you chuckleheads to deal with it alone, can I?" Dean replied, his voice laced with fondness for the people of his city, despite being a little dismissive of their ability to take care of their own freaking city for a few months without being overrun by demons and falling to mob rule.  
"What do you want me to do? Uh – us? The force?" Sam asked, longing to be useful in this pig of a situation.  
"Rally your men. Get ready for the assault you have planned on city hall. You still in contact with Bobby and Rufus?"  
"Course I am," Sam replied without even thinking. Bobby, especially, even though he was technically his boss, was like a father to him – more so than the foster-parents he'd never quite felt at home with as a child. "But they got caught yesterday. They'll be sentenced pretty soon is my guess,"  
"I'll get 'em free. Soon as he's out, the three of you get to the radio tower. Rufus knows a thing or two about transmissions, he can get rid of whatever signal jam they've got, then you're free to transmit,"  
"How're we gonna get in? They're all over the tower like a bad stink – ditto city hall, it's gonna be impossible to break out Bobby and Rufus,"  
"He means to make a deal with a demon," Cas added in helpfully. Sam gaped, staring in disbelief at Gotham's last hope.  
". . . You - you can't do that!" He gasped.  
"Indeed, I too was sceptical of his plan. It's unlikely we'll find a demon who will partake in such a deal," Castiel said thoughtfully. Sam just looked at him dumbly, then snapped himself out of it with a shake of his head as the Dark Knight replied:  
"I have no choice, Sam. I've got to protect you, and the rest of Gotham even if it means I've gotta die,"  
"But-"  
"You ain't calling the shots here, kid. Listen, you've done real good so far, but it's time to let me do what I gotta do. Trust me, okay? Just, get Bobby and Rufus to the radio tower. Then you can transmit an exorcism that every device with a radio frequency will play. No more demons,"

Sam's jaw clenched, and he gritted his teeth, but nodded. Around them, the sun rose, casting pink and orange light around the intersection.

"Okay, then – get to it. Tell your men the plan, and _stick to it. Don't _let them catch you again," Dean warned harshly, but Sam could tell his tone of voice was caused mainly by concern.  
"You can count on me," Sam replied, his voice layered with loyalty, though he hated sacrificing his friend for his own safety – even if it meant Gotham was saved. He supposed that true heroes didn't think twice about biting the bullet like this.

Sam held out his hand, and his friend took it, grasping it forcefully.  
"Thanks for not giving up on me, Sammy,"  
Sam would usually have cringed at being called 'Sammy', but coming from the other man, it felt . . . _Right_. That, added to the fact he was being thanked for all he'd done, almost made him refresh his efforts to get Dean to not go through with his dumb demon deal plan.  
"Dean, we need to be prompt. I don't think dragging out what is already an unusually long goodbye between two people who do not have carnal knowledge of one another would be appropr-"  
"Dammit Cas, I'm coming!" With that, the angel touched both the car and the man beside him, and they all disappeared.

Sam stared at the space where they had been, almost struggling to believe what had just happened. But when he looked at the pristine flesh of his palms, which had been grazed a moment or two ago, he knew it was real. So, he stooped to pick up his shotgun, and took out a piece of chalk – every police officer carried one, just in case the time was right.

On the cement, where the Impala had been, he drew a pentacle.  
"He's back," He muttered to himself, as he took a long look at the symbol and grew almost dizzy with excitement and pride.

He strode off, breaking into a run, to tell his fellow officers the good news.

* * *

_Got an idea for an AU? For a one-shot, or a longer story? Let me know! I'm open to prompts via PM, or via my Tumblr (thatwasbeautiful-clarence)_


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